Sexi Lexi and the San Fernando Valley Fuck Switch a.k.a Less Than Shapiro
by Max Barrie
To my critics… I wish you all of you peace, love and anal leakage. But you’re not allowed to use my toilet. Try the Chevron on the corner you hush-hush cocksuckers.
Every word I type is true… I don’t do semi-fictional… I’m not James Frey. Everyone has their version of things and this is mine. The names are changed to protect the guilty, but that’s about as fictitious as I get. ALSO, I wish I knew as much about me as all of you do. If you have an opinion about my life or my recovery… if you think you know something OR see me as cookie cutter spoiled trash, I respect that. You’re not wrong, but that is simply your take. I’ll admit it stings a little when you flash your funhouse mirrors, then poke at me with your pedestrian solutions and tough love that I’m either too naive or too stubborn to adhere to. If it didn’t hurt I wouldn’t be writing this.
When I say ONE THING, different people hear different things. So just to go on record— I do not blame anyone for ME. I tell MY stories, I report MY news. I know us humans often look out the window instead of at our reflection because it sits better with our psyche… but believe me I spend plenty of time in the bathroom poking myself in the chest. There are certainly people I wouldn’t thank during my Oscar speech but that doesn’t mean I sit around all day pointing my dick at every cunt I see. I do believe that in this life there’s an ongoing “lack of insight” Bar-Mitzvah theme down every road I travel. But at the end of the day I know I’m a lottery winner and ultimately responsible for my actions… not my thoughts… my actions— and making my way in the world.
I am a fussy baby bitch that would be a blow up doll behind bars, but in front of my Macbook I’m anything but. I’m King Shit of Turd Island and I will take you apart piece by piece for peace. I will filet your nameless anus and cut off your anonymous tongue. I promise. Often in life I throw temper tantrums that nobody can hear… and if they do hear something, they think it’s the gardener and shut the window. So hear this. I want my turn on the seesaw, I want my twenty-percent-off coupon at Bed Bath and Beyond and I want a dirty girl with clear skin to fuck me gently. So if my writing cracks open that door, hand me a Bic Pen and a napkin.
But there’s more to my chicken scratch than desperately needing a voice or claiming a prize. Selfishly I scribble to keep my head from bursting like a water balloon. If I don’t constantly stay creative, you will inevitably find me at Ruth’s Chris on Beverly Drive, stuffing an entire ribeye into my body and spilling Heineken down my pants because it feels good. Writing for me is pushing a never-ending shit-log out of an infinite asshole. I keep it moving so I don’t get backed up.
If I write for other people, which I’ve tried before, I’m in a great deal of danger. I paint alone, I type alone and I’ll probably leave earth alone… unless it’s on Virgin Galactic. Speaking of saying goodbye— I also write to make sure there’s documentation of all this silliness because I’m gonna be dead very soon. I’ll be strolling down North Crescent to meet the vagina of my dreams… and before I reach the hotel entrance I’m gonna have a massive heart attack, hit my head on a wooden bench and bleed out on the pink walkway. Later that day I’ll be offered a book deal.
Ladies and Gentlemen… may I present: Sexy Lexi
The actual vagina of my dreams was and will probably always belong to Lexi Shapiro. I first heard her raspy voice on a three-way landline call when we were eleven years old. She was a friend of a friend of mine. He was a dick and his whole family were dildos, but at that age I would have followed him off the Malibu Pier because I thought he was cool. I forget exactly why he introduced me to Lexi… but my guess is he wanted to show me that even at that young age he was no stranger to strange. Soon the three of us met up at Century City— not the shopping mall, but the creepy complex across the street where the massive CAA building now shimmers.
Lexi looked like Claire Forlani before I had ever seen Claire Forlani. At eleven however, she was still quite subtle and wore thick glasses. There was really nothing super unique about her… another half-Jewish girl from The Valley with dirty blonde hair. Still, something happened when I first met her in person… those magnified peepers flipped a switch in my misshapen little mind. And I couldn’t explain it then and I can’t really articulate it now… but the process would be irreversible. To this day I regularly think about her.
It was like all of a sudden I had a purpose in life and it was to make Lexi love me. But how? At the time I had recently seen Disney’s Aladdin… but I didn’t know Robin Williams, nor did we have Fuckheimer genie money. I was also short and chubby with a puffy “butt cut—” as a result of Hebrew heritage and my 90’s Stussy image. Winning her heart would be no humble feat.
From sixth grade to age twenty-six any of my Lexi fairy tales would put you to sleep by 7:30pm. But I’ll give you a bit of background. Coincidently she and I ended up attending the same synagogue with our families, and sometimes we ate together… we spoke on the phone occasionally… we also kicked it at certain social gatherings. And even though I was a Beverly Hills boy and she was a Valley girl, she introduced me to Il Tramezzino on Canon… much like Lexi, their “chicken special” would change the game forever.
By the time we were fifteen her glasses came off… and her nose may have been adjusted. Either that or she and every third girl I knew were accidentally breaking their beaks over summer break. One night she wanted to see a chick flick at CityWalk. I was balls deep in the friend zone and I didn’t even know it. At the time I saw this as an opportunity, but feared my dick would explode and I would shit my pants before the movie started. How would I make her see me the way that I perceived her, as a portal to some sort of earthy paradise? It also didn’t help my case that I looked like the Jewish Eddie Munster.
I found my dad in his home office and begged and pleaded with him to get me a Town Car and a driver for the evening. In my mind the vehicle would serve two purposes. One— I would give this Toluca Lake Tootsie a taste of the good life… and two— it would prevent any parental figures from fucking up my chance of a first kiss. I was fifteen and would’ve easily picked making out over any amount of Apple stock. These days I don’t even like kissing… the tongues, the saliva, the bacteria… get away from me. If a mouth isn’t pristine, she might as well be wearing a Beekeeper’s mask during intercourse.
My father, bless his heart, eventually gave in and ordered the Town Car. Is it the right thing to do to get a ninth grader a car and driver for the evening? My guess is many would object… but I think in some bizarro way he empathized with how twisted up I was over this Lexi situation. And at that time I truly believed she was the answer to my cancer.
"Moaning and groaning in ecstasy… clearly this reaction was drug induced because anytime I had fooled around with women in the past, they usually reacted like my dog ate their homework. Of course I’m referring to the ladies that weren’t handing me an invoice after I ejaculated."
She did seem impressed by the chaffered car, but the flash didn’t aid my confidence. Never did, never will. And after sitting through a horrific Gwyneth Paltrow movie in Universal City, nothing magical happened on or off-screen. I remember her hugging me when the car dropped her at home… and I recall feeling sorrow and shame during the ride back to my Dad’s place. I even assumed the driver thought I was on the down-low.
So many similar stories. Some of them with Lexi, but also many of them with my imaginary girlfriend, Abigail. When Abby finally gave me head after senior prom, she wouldn’t even swallow my make-believe semen. My real date that night was supposedly a Seventeen model and treated me like I was contagious.
Years later
I was twenty-six years young when I had dinner with Lexi at a Greek restaurant on Larchmont. This evening would not end until sunrise. And there’s not much of a story to tell, but this night was quite significant for me. If you asked her today, I’m sure she wouldn’t even remember. I was sober, but she sure as hell wasn’t. Even five years later I believed that had this one adventure gone differently, life would’ve been kitten biscuits.
Before ye judge, no one was taken advantage of. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a fucking asshole.
Dinner eventually led us to a Hollywon’t night spot. I shelled out several hundred dollars for a fully loaded table, but I didn’t touch the poison on it… I was dry for some reason. I was the designated driver, but that couldn’t have been the reason. There was a Led Zeppelin cover band playing and I could feel my pulse in my eardrums. To this day whenever I hear “Whole Lotta Love” I have PTSD.
Lexi kept drinking booze at our table and taking frequent trips to the bathroom. I was so lost in my head that it didn’t occur to me until later that she was doing blow… a lot of it. She eventually revealed her voodoo vial of bright white, but I wasn’t having any. I heard my Step-Mother’s voice— “One sniff could be your last.” I did cocaine for the first time later that year with my buddy Blooper. I remember I pulled out a one-dollar bill and Bloop explained that higher currency was probably less contaminated— which actually made sense even though the product had just been up someone’s ass. Still, like Lexi and the “chicken special,” lines would become shape-shifters in my game.
After the nightclub, I could walk you through the night beat by beat. But I’d like to speed it up a tad because this isn’t MY magazine, it’s just MY column in someone else’s magazine… and I’m lucky to have it.
I ended up driving Lexi’s car because she was so toe-up. I didn’t realize until that evening how hard she liked to party. Booze and blow… then while we’re cruising down Wilshire Boulevard, she pops the glovebox and a giant honey jar of Kush falls into her lap. She can’t stop laughing… at this point I’m freaking out inside— convinced jail is just a BOOP-BOOP away. But I’m playing it cool or at least Larry David’s version of cool. Lexi soon wants to stop for rolling papers and also mentions that she wants to… fuck me in half. Huh? Can you not rinse but repeat that?
After fifteen long years the girl of my dreams who always looked at me like a My Buddy Doll, saw me the way I saw her… only it was through very thick beer goggles. We grabbed Zig-Zags at Rite-Aid and drove to The Valley, while she proceeded to get very stoned. At one point while I was driving she leaned over and stuck her tongue in my ear… I nearly drove into a mountain.
At the time I was renting a loft in Hancock Park, but I never bought furniture… don’t ask. I had this big empty apartment with a desk and a mattress on the floor. By now Lexi was so high and horny I could’ve fucked her in Griffith Park and told her it was the New Outdoor Marriott. But I didn’t do that. And I was too ashamed to bring her back to my place… so we headed toward her family’s home where she was staying.
The story doesn’t end there… who am I kidding, it basically does. Before we reached her destination she instructed me to pull over on a quiet street off of Beverly Glen. I did as I was told. Lexi crawled over into the driver’s seat and straddled me… we started kissing passionately and she looked like she was literally in heaven. Moaning and groaning in ecstasy… clearly this reaction was drug induced because anytime I had fooled around with women in the past, they usually reacted like my dog ate their homework. Of course I’m referring to the ladies that weren’t handing me an invoice after I ejaculated.
I started using my fingers on Lexi and she went wild… but when she pulled her panties further to the side and went for the yogurt gun, I stopped her. “We shouldn’t do this.” As I’m writing now I want to hop in Doc’s DeLorean, travel back in time and punch myself in the fucking eye! I suppose I didn’t want to take advantage of a drunk girl… and I didn’t want to cum inside her… and I didn’t want to get caught by the authorities… and what if she had HPV and I became a carrier?
I drove her home, parked her car and she gracefully stumbled toward her front door. She asked how I would get back? And like we were kids, I spun a story of a driver that would come pick me up. Lexi smiled and said goodnight. Walking up Ventura Boulevard before sunrise was beyond depressing… I eventually called a cab. On the ride back I felt what I can only describe as hollow torment.
In my youth I was spit on, hit with food, threatened, blackmailed, slapped, kicked, name-called, humiliated, overlooked, ignored, criticized, isolated and labeled learning disabled. I was not always, but often in the thick of it… and I’m NOT feeling sorry for myself you mummies! I want to try and understand how come after years of battle in Cost Angeles, I let Lexi Shapiro’s magical vagina literally slip through my fingers? Do I just “like the way it hurts” like Rihanna? I don’t think I’m a nice guy… well, nice-ish at times. Maybe unconsciously I knew that if I stuck it in I’d beat the game, then wake up only to relive this Lifemare all over?
I tried tirelessly, but Lexi wouldn’t see me again after that. She has since left Los Angeles and started a family.
Max Barrie is a writer and artist currently based in Los Angeles. The son of screenwriters, Michael Barrie and Sally Robinson, Max was born and raised in Beverly Hills, California. With acerbic wit and self deprecating humor, Max documents his life growing up in the shallow, superficial depths of Beverly Hills and the Hollywood machine. In his multiple part autobiographical series, entitled A Trendy Tragedy, Max will explore his bouts with addiction, prostitution and his search for identity in a landscape that is rife with temptation and false ideals.